Peter Lovesey: The Summons

A rhythmic banging started up. In a moment of panic Mountjoy thought it must be the riot shields already, much sooner than he expected. Then he got a grip on his nerves and decided the noise was coming from the far end of the landing. It had to be the mob in the recess. They must have had their punch-up and now, united against authority, they were doing their best to work up some courage. They’d have ripped out most of the plumbing and armed themselves with mop handles.

He tried the mustache again. More pathetic than ever, a giveaway. At least he could cut off his sideboards. Anything that would alter his appearance was a bonus. He got to work with the toothbrush blade. It felt as if he was tugging out more hairs than he was cutting, but it was worth persevering, and it filled some time.

After fifteen minutes in the screws’ room he put on the clothes. They were tailored to fit over his regular shirt and jeans. They had no lining of their own. He drew them on gently, fearful of ripping a seam. They felt strange. He reminded himself that they had to look convincing on a control monitor, that was all. He’d got to have confidence in them, or he would be sunk. Last, he put on the cap. It fitted snugly and felt right. No one in Albany had ever seen him in a hat. He stood up straight, shouldets back. PC 121.

Ten more minutes passed. Ten empty, dispiriting minutes. He wished he could stop the ape-men drumming. It was impossible to tell what the screws were doing. He dared not step outside until he was reasonably sure there were police in the building. He opened the door a fraction and listened.

Someone was using a loud-hailer.

The mob didn’t stop to listen.

Mountjoy strained to hear what was being said.

“… in need of medical attention. If you refuse to let the doctor see him, the consequences could be extremely serious for you all.”

That kind of talk wouldn’t impress a bunch of lifers.

He pushed the door outward just a little more and his T-shirt felt cold against his skin. He could see a raiding party in riot gear moving along the landing toward the barricade. He pulled the door shut. This was a quicker move than he had expected. Surely they wouldn’t go in? Maybe they were just assessing the situation.

Some metal object clattered along the landing. Presumably the raiding party had been spotted. A chorus of swearing followed. And the sound of more missiles hitting the iron railings.

He needed to know what was happening downstairs. Twenty-five minutes must have passed since the incident began- time enough, surely? He was going to have to make his move PDQ, or the landing would be swarming with screws. The nearest staircase was about four strides from the door. He was counting on getting down without drawing attention to himself.

He took another look. The screws had retreated apparently. The Assistant Governor-it was his voice Mountjoy heard-was issuing another warning.

“… reason to believe a man was seriously injured, possibly killed. I have no option but to bring this disturbance to a quick end. The prison staff have been joined by a number of police officers…”

That was all Mountjoy wanted to hear. He took one more look and stepped outside, moving rapidly to the staircase. It was a double flight with a small landing halfway. Eight steps down, about-turn and eight steps to the ground. Then it would be time to say his prayers.

The first flight was partly sheltered from view. The second offered no protection. He remembered a clip from a film called The Last Emperor. That little kid stepping outside the Imperial Palace and facing a mass of people. That’s how I’m going to feel any minute, he thought. Conspicuous.

As he descended, his confidence drained. What am I doing for Christ’s sake, dressed in dyed rags and cardboard, masquerading as a policeman? How did I ever persuade myself that this was a feasible plan?

He reached the landing and turned. Keep going, he told himself. Whoever is ahead, keep going.

There were scores of dark blue uniforms down there. Fortunately most of them weren’t looking his way. The landing where the barricade was built was the focus of attention. A spotlight beam moved along the ironwork. Mountjoy started going down the stairs. To his left, at the edge of his vision, someone in a suit was issuing instructions to more of the riot squad. He looked straight ahead, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone at all, fully expecting to be challenged any second.

He reached ground level and hoped to merge with the crowd. Some of the lights had been switched off down there, he supposed to confuse the rioters, which ought to be to his advantage. He estimated fifteen paces to the first security door, but the floor was too crowded to take a straight line. It was the proverbial minefield. God, he thought, will I come face to face with a screw who knows me?

Stiff back, he told himself. Walk like a copper. What I could do with now is a personal radio to thrust in front of my face and talk into if anyone approaches me. A bit bloody late to think of it.

He was in a stupor of fear. Things were registering in slow motion as if he were just an observer. He supposed it was the stage before screaming panic sets in. Although the place was seething with screws, he hadn’t spotted a single one of the fuzz yet. He didn’t want to meet any, but it would be useful to know that they were there.

He was sidling around a group when the loud-hailer spoke and he reacted with such a jerk that he almost lost his cardboard cap.

“Move back under the landing,” the Assistant Governor announced. “We need more space here.”

He wasn’t speaking just to Mountjoy. The attention shifted from upstairs. A general movement began. Someone at Mountjoy’s side asked him, “Was anyone killed up there?”

“Nobody can tell yet,” he muttered, trying to move against the tide and being forced off course. He was starting to feel like a drowning man. He hated the proximity of people, and these were screws. He was shoulder to shoulder with them, unable to move.

He could do nothing except shake with fear.

Behind him someone said, “They’re going in again.”

It seemed that the riot squad had taken up a position on the very staircase that Mount joy had just come down. There was a general movement forward to get a sight of them. The congestion eased slightly and he edged to his right. He was still less than halfway across the floor to the door. So eager was he to make progress that he barged into someone and practically knocked him over.

The screw turned and stared at Mountjoy. It was Grindley, one of the SOs he saw every day. There was a petrifying moment when Grindley’s eyes narrowed and he appeared to have recognized him. Mountjoy was ready to surrender. Then Grindley blinked twice. It was obvious from his face that he wasn’t quite sure. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing and cold reason was telling him he must be mistaken. He actually said, “Sorry, mate.”

Mountjoy dared not speak. He nodded and moved on.

He was so close to the first door now. God help me, he said to himself-a group of police were standing beside it.

He couldn’t halt in his tracks. He was on camera so he would have to act the part he was supposed to be playing.

A couple of the rozzers turned his way and looked surprised, and no wonder.

They expected him to speak, to supply some explanation for his presence. He said with all the credibility he could dredge up, “A man is dead up there. The Governor wants us to stand by.” Then he approached the door and raised a hand to signal to the screw in the control room.

Quaking in his shoes, he waited.

One of the police said, “You from Cowes, mate?”

He answered, “Shanklin,” and added, “on detachment.”